


A Matter of Routine

by sophie_448



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Minor appearances by the Russian team, Pre-Series, Slice of Life, Viktor is kind of sad but doesn't know it, and chris, past referenced Viktor/Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 14:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11511306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophie_448/pseuds/sophie_448
Summary: Viktor's last practice before the Grand Prix Final in Sochi. He's fine.A character study of Viktor before Yuuri.





	A Matter of Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waterofthemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/gifts).



> Ahhhh okay, jumping into this fandom with a weird Viktor character study piece no one asked for! 
> 
> Infinite thanks to [waterofthemoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon) for her excellent beta skills and for encouraging me to actually write one of my million fic ideas. 
> 
> Thanks also to the rest of Chat for inspiring me to create again and just for generally being awesome. 
> 
> Title and inspiration from "The Day Before You Came" by ABBA. 
> 
> I spent too long googling Russian soap operas and French novels for minor references. Way too long.

Viktor groans and presses his face into the pillow, trying to ignore the insistent buzzing of the alarm. He's tempted to turn it off and go back to sleep, but his sleep-fogged brain reminds him it's the last day of practice before they leave for the Grand Prix Final in Sochi. He drags his protesting body upright and slips his feet into the slippers he keeps by the side of the bed. 

Various body parts make their displeasure known as he shuffles towards the bathroom, stretching lazily. Viktor knows it doesn't yet show in his performance, but he'll turn 27 in a few weeks, and he's starting to feel the effects of two decades of relentless training. 

Makkachin raises his head from his spot on the bed, and Viktor runs an affectionate hand over his head before whistling softly and making his way to the door to grab his coat and Makka's lead. Their morning walk is short, as neither dog nor human is inclined to linger very long in the sub-freezing temperatures of a St. Petersburg morning in December. 

Once they get back inside, Viktor runs through his morning routine by rote. He prepares his usual training breakfast. His diet is rather … limited during the competitive season. If he never sees another egg white, it will be too soon, really. 

After breakfast, he runs a comb through his hair and changes into his training clothes. It's been years since he cut his once-signature long hair, but he sometimes still gets a little thrill at how much easier it is to care for his shorter locks. He tosses his skate bag over his shoulder, gives Makkachin a last pat, and makes his way out the door. 

The metro station is a short walk from his building, and the day is clear despite the cold. He smiles absently at the blue sky before making his way down the stairs to the platform. He glances at his phone and is pleased to note that he'll make it to practice on time. He's more than used to Yakov's yelling, but he doesn't actually like to make his coach upset for no reason. 

When he gets to the rink, the juniors' session is still finishing up. Little Yuri is in the middle of running through his free skate, blatantly ignoring Yakov's direction. Viktor smiles to himself. There's a lot about Yuri that reminds him of himself at that age – so sure he knew everything and shrugging off any advice he didn't want to listen to. Although Yuri has an angry streak that Viktor never did, preferring to smile and bat his eyes to get his way. 

Viktor watches for a moment with a critical eye. Yuri is undeniably talented. He'll take gold in the junior division with ease, and he knows it. Being so far ahead of all his competition is making him lazy. He'll have to work a lot harder when he moves into the senior division next year – when he skates against Viktor. And all the other talented senior men, of course. 

He purses his lips in thought as he heads to the locker room. Will he still be competing next year? He supposes so, barring serious injury, the ever-looming spectre for an aging skater. Viktor is well aware he's practically geriatric for a competitive skater. Plenty of talented skaters younger than him have already retired. But skating is the only life he knows. He's worked too hard and sacrificed too much to reach this level. He'll be damned if he gives it up before he absolutely has to. 

After running through his warm up and stretching routine, Viktor laces up his skates and takes to the ice. It's only him and Mila this morning so that Yakov can give more individual attention to the skaters who are competing this weekend. Normally all the juniors and seniors have two daily practices, morning and afternoon, with dance and off-ice conditioning in the middle somewhere. But things get shifted around close to competition dates. 

Viktor does a couple of warm-up laps, just feeling the ice slide under his blades. The ice is a constant, but it's also constantly changing. It's never exactly the same from one practice to the next or from one rink to another. There's always that slight moment of adjustment.

He moves quickly into working on his free skate, wanting to run through the longer, more difficult routine while he's fresh and rested. He does it once without music, marking his jumps, just to get the feel of it in his feet. Then he takes his starting position and nods to Yakov to start the music. 

As the notes of the "Aria" ring out over the ice, Viktor sinks into the melancholy that grips him each time he hears it. The tenor's voice is strong and rich; it touches Viktor in a way he can't put into words. But he can show it through his skating. He whirls around the ice, reaching for something just out of his grasp. The footwork of the program is intricate, and his jumps and spins are at the highest level. He never lets the effort show on his face or in his body, though. If he does his job right, the audience should feel that he is dancing a centimeter above the ice, beautiful but not quite real. Because isn't that what a legend is? 

Viktor comes to rest in his final pose, holding it for a few seconds before dropping back to earth, finally letting the exertion show as he rests his hands on his thighs, breathing hard. Yakov, of course, has plenty of criticism to offer. Viktor listens with half an ear while mentally replaying the program, scanning for flaws. 

"Again," Yakov barks, and Viktor skates back to center ice, ready to defy gravity once again. 

After a few more repetitions, Yakov waves Viktor off to take a break while he cues up Mila's music. Viktor snaps his guards on and goes to sit on one of the benches behind the barrier. He grabs a drink from his water bottle, then bends to retie his skates. 

He checks Instagram, scrolling idly through the photos. A picture of Yuri's cat, an indecent selfie from Chris – as if he posts any other kind, Viktor thinks as he double taps to like it – a picture of Stéphane with his young protégé. Viktor closes the app. He doesn't need any more reminders of how old he is. Stéphane is only a few years older than Viktor, and he's busy coaching the next generation and curating his legacy. Viktor sets the phone aside and gets back on the ice. He doesn't want to let himself cool down too much. 

When it's time to work on his short program, Viktor smiles winningly at his coach. "It's time to dance, Yakov," he says. Yakov sighs deeply, like he has every time Viktor has skated this program. Yakov needs him, Viktor thinks. It keeps him young. He skates to his starting position, and the dulcet strains of Lady Gaga's "Just Dance" play over the speakers. His short program is _fun_. It's a great contrast to the serious, longing quality of his free skate, all fast, flashy footwork and perfectly timed jumps. The crowds loved it during the qualifiers. 

Chris actually gave him the idea after Worlds last year. They were at a club in Quebec City celebrating their medals – gold for Viktor, of course, and bronze for Chris. They were more than slightly tipsy when "Just Dance" came on. 

"I love this song," Chris said, laughing. 

"Who doesn't?" Viktor replied.

Then Chris' eyes widened. "I should skate to this! No. Wait. _You_ should skate to this! Talk about surprises." 

Viktor let the idea sink into his inebriated brain, and he realized that it was pure genius. "Yes!" he exclaimed, clapping Chris' shoulder. "That's perfect!" 

Months later, Viktor posted a teaser clip of his short program to Instagram. Chris called him not five minutes later. 

"I thought you were joking," he said. 

"I never joke about Gaga," Viktor responded. 

"We were drunk, Viktor!" 

Viktor shrugged expressively, although Chris couldn't see it. "So?" 

After a few seconds of disbelieving silence, Chris had laughed. "And it will be brilliant, and everyone will love it. Because it's you." He sounded resigned, but fond. 

"But of course, mon cher." 

Viktor smiles at the memory. He wishes he could see Chris more than three or four times a year, but such is the life of international competitors. And there's always Facetime and Snapchat and Instagram. 

He runs through the program a few times, taking a moment to breathe – and get yelled at by Yakov – in between. It may be his short program, but it's fast and demanding, and – much as he hates to admit it – his stamina isn't what it was a few years ago. 

After that, Yakov sends him home to rest and pack. Viktor stretches, showers, and gathers his things. On his way to the door, he hears Yakov yelling at Mila to get off the phone and onto the ice. Mila is almost always texting with her hockey player boyfriend lately. He doesn't think it's very good for Yakov's blood pressure, but then, he probably shouldn't talk. 

Viktor catches the train back home. He casts a longing look at the little restaurant on the corner, but he knows that greasy takeout will do him no favors so close to competition. He sighs, resigning himself to salad, baked chicken, and steamed vegetables. 

Once inside his apartment, he drops his things by the door and throws himself on his, honestly, not very comfortable sofa. He scrolls idly through his email before dropping his phone and staring idly at the ceiling for a while. He has an entire afternoon to kill, and all he really needs to do is pack his suitcase. He so rarely has this much time to himself, and it's so _boring_. 

Makkachin trots out of the bedroom and butts his head up against Viktor's side. He must have been napping since Viktor isn't usually home at this time of day. Viktor pets him lazily for a few minutes before dragging himself off the sofa to get Makka's lead. 

They go out for a slightly longer walk, since the temperature has crept up to just below zero. Viktor lets Makkachin take the lead for a while, following whatever interesting scents he can pick up from the icy sidewalks, before steering them towards home. 

Once back inside, Viktor is highly tempted to flop back onto the couch, but he makes himself walk to the kitchen to make lunch instead. Afterwards, he turns on the TV and flicks through the channels, stopping on a rerun of _Poor Nastya_. It reminds him of his Junior days, six or seven skaters crowded into the small common room of the dormitory. 

Sometimes he misses the feeling of camaraderie he got from living in close proximity with his teammates, but then he remembers the fights over bathroom time and laundry and hair dryers. There are definite advantages to living on your own, and Viktor had availed himself of them as soon as he was able. 

Viktor has lived alone for almost ten years now. He's had lovers, sure, but none have lasted long enough to think about moving in together. He used to have high-flown romantic ideas when he was younger, leading to a string of dramatic breakups in his teens and early twenties. They all felt quite earth shattering at the time, but he knows they weren't that serious.

Viktor's never been in love, not really. He thought he might be once – with Chris, who else? It was a couple of years after Chris moved up to Seniors. They were both young and beautiful and sexually adventurous, and it had all seemed very romantic. It wasn't long, though, before they both realized it would never be anything more than it was. They agreed they were better off as friends, and that was that. Viktor remembers crying into his pillow afterwards, but even at the time he had some inkling that he was mourning the idea of love more than the actual relationship. 

In recent years, dating has been more of an afterthought – if he got around to it at all. Training takes up most of his time, and his collection of high-end sex toys takes far less work than picking up a stranger at a club. Dramatic romantic entanglements – and the energy they require – lost their shine as he got older. Now he thinks that love will happen if it happens. If something is really meant to be, he shouldn't need to look so hard for it. 

Viktor must fall asleep at some point, because he wakes to find that the episode he was watching has ended at some point. Now there's some kind of cooking show on. They're probably making something Viktor can't eat for five more months. He sits up and turns the TV off. 

The streetlights are on outside, and dusk is fading into night. Viktor picks up his phone and sees that it's about 4:30. He should probably think about actually starting to pack. He groans irritably, causing Makkachin to perk up his ears and look at Viktor questioningly. Viktor shakes his head. He's whining with no one but his dog to hear him. Very mature. 

He picks up his skate bag from where he'd dropped it by the door and carries it to the bedroom, setting it on the bed. Then he pulls his suitcases over from the corner of the room where they've been sitting since he last used them barely two weeks ago. 

There's really not much to do. His travel toiletries are still neatly stowed in their little plastic pouches, and the only things he _really_ needs are his skates and his costumes. He pulls his skates out of the smaller, backpack-style bag he uses for daily practices and puts them in the wheeled case he uses for competitions. He goes through a mental checklist, making sure he has all the sundry small items that any figure skater needs. Soakers, check. Guards, check. Drying towel, check. Backup laces, check. 

He runs to the kitchen to grab a couple of the disgusting but carefully calibrated energy bars that Alexei, the rink nutritionist, says are the best things to eat if he needs something close to competition time. He stuffs them into a side pocket of the skate bag and looks over the contents again. From the closet, he pulls a simple pair of black skating pants and a black shirt. He folds them carefully into the bag and zips it up. 

His skates are the only truly irreplaceable things that he needs for a competition, but his costumes are a close second. Unfortunately, it's not possible to carry on both his skate bag and the garment bag containing the costumes. They're custom pieces, designed and created for him at no small expense. He can't simply fold them into a suitcase. 

So he carries his skate bag, and the black outfit is his emergency "costume." It certainly won't win him any points with the judges if he ever has to wear it, but it's better than going out on the ice in his practice clothes. He's never had an airline lose his bags, but it's best to be prepared. 

Next, he pulls his costumes and a suit out of the closet and packs them carefully into the garment bag – the maroon, military-inspired free skate outfit, the black and silver monstrosity – as Yakov calls it – for his short program, and the simple blue and gray of his exhibition costume. 

Viktor gathers the practice clothes and street clothes he needs from his drawers and the folded pile of clean laundry he hasn't had a chance to put away and folds them into a second suitcase. He tosses in the few other assorted items he needs and zips up the bag. 

He stares down at the luggage, trying to think if he's forgotten anything. After a moment, he turns to grab a book from his nightstand and pull his noise cancelling headphones out of the drawer. He tucks them into the front of his skate bag. There. Now he's packed, and it took less than an hour. 

Viktor drags his bags out of the bedroom and arranges them near the front door, ready to go for his early morning flight the next day. He looks around a little aimlessly then. He still has a few hours to kill before he'll be able to get to sleep. 

He texts Chris to ask when his flight is getting in, and they chat for a while, making dinner plans for Sochi and talking shit – one of their favorite pastimes as close competitors. He's looking forward to seeing his friend again. 

Viktor eats his boring, nutritious dinner. He washes the few dishes he's used today and puts them away. Glancing around the kitchen, he decides to give the counters and stove top a quick wipe down, but everything is actually pretty clean, so he can't really make any more busywork for himself. 

Around eight, Viktor takes Makkachin out for one last walk. On the way back, he stops to check with his neighbor Katya that she's still okay to feed and walk Makka while he's gone. She's a short woman a little older than Viktor with magenta streaks in her short, dark hair who loves hockey and doesn't give a damn about figure skating. It's one of the reasons he feels comfortable enough to let her take care of his dog. She wishes him luck and assures him that she still has the spare key to his apartment. 

When they get back inside, Viktor thinks about turning on the TV, but he knows there won't be anything on. He turns aimlessly, looking around the living room for something else to occupy his time. 

There's a stack of books on the end table beside the sofa that's labeled in Viktor's head as "I am definitely, for sure, going to read these at some point. Before I die." He sifts through them and settles on a French novel he picked up in Paris a few years ago. _L'Élégance du hérisson – The Elegance of the Hedgehog_. It's been sitting on his end table ever since he unpacked from that trip. 

He starts reading it now out of sheer, desperate boredom and finds himself enjoying it. It's weird and pretentious in the way a lot of French things are, but Viktor likes weird and pretentious. When he next looks up, it's a quarter to ten, time to get ready for bed. Their flight really is disgustingly early in the morning. Spontaneously, he tucks _L'Élégance du hérisson_ into his bag next to the other book he packed earlier. 

Viktor brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed on autopilot. He crawls in under the fluffy down comforter and pats the other side of the bed. Makkachin hops up and circles a few times before settling down. Viktor knows he probably shouldn't let the dog sleep on the bed, but Makka looks so sad when he tries to make him sleep in his (very expensive) doggy bed. And honestly, Viktor doesn't mind the company. 

He reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp before lying down and pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. "Goodnight, Makka," he says, and Makkachin makes a soft snuffling sound in reply. Viktor falls asleep listening to the muffled sounds of the city at night filtering up from the sidewalk. 

*

A year from now, floating in a frigid hotel pool in Barcelona, Viktor will think of this day. He will think about how lonely it seems and wonder that he didn't even notice there was something missing in his life. Here, now, he has no idea how close he is to finding his missing pieces. He doesn't know that, in the short course of a weekend, his life will be turned upside down, and he will be so very glad of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://ifshehadwings.tumblr.com) if you want to chat about YOI or writing or ABBA or whatever


End file.
